


The New King

by xaccier



Series: dreamnotfound fics [10]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dream Team SMP Setting (Video Blogging RPF), Angst with a Happy Ending, Dream Team SMP Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Fluff and Angst, King GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Love, M/M, Memories, Mentioned Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Royalty, The sun - Freeform, false betrayals, grassy hills, the lion king quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29683149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaccier/pseuds/xaccier
Summary: “Look, George,” Dream says. His arm stretches out to motion to the land displayed below them, finger pointed out like he’s picking apart every last detail of the world they created together. George follows his gaze, ripping his eyes away from sunkissed skin. His voice is slow, thought out, as though he’s been anticipating this moment for a while. “Everything the light touches is our Kingdom.”—george finally pays attention to dream's words, and it turns out he's not as bad of a guy as he thought he was.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: dreamnotfound fics [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026964
Comments: 16
Kudos: 129
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	The New King

**Author's Note:**

> took me a while to get the motivation to actually write something, but I really like how this one turned out. I hope you all enjoy it :]
> 
> my twitter is @xaccier  
> follow if you want, we have fun <3

_Orange and red streaks stain the sky with artistic brilliance. George remembers spending the whole evening and night up on that grassy hill, watching with careful intensity as the sun dropped lower and lower behind black and yellow concrete walls._

_The soft winter breeze picks apart his tawny hair. The bow and arrows he collected in the day lie heavily on his back, weighing his shoulders down, but he doesn’t bother taking them off. His attention is drawn to the painted sky and the boy in front of him._

_George tips his head back, letting his eyes flutter shut. He basks in the last remaining light, feeling it wash over his cheeks and nose, spraying his exposed forearms and collarbones with gold._

_The city below stutters, as people give in for the night and let sleep and exhaustion catch them up and take them away to far-off lands. The people huddle away together in their homes, yet below dirt and grime lives those of the revolution who don’t believe in sleeping. George can’t see them, though, so far as he knows, the day is coming to a close._

_George lets his eyes wonder. They travel up long poles of bamboo, over the curves of constructing sites filled with scaffolding, and up through wavy blond hair. He lets his eyes linger on the back of Dream’s head before blinking down at his worn shoes._

_“George,” Dream says. His breathy tone makes George’s head peek back up, to see tanned fingers linking behind his head. “Stand next to me.”_

_George’s grip tightens around the wood of his bow. It’s warily placed across his chest, the perfect angle for George to mess with it. His lips part as he takes a tentative step forward. The leaves, once living atop lively natural trees, crunch beneath his weight._

_George feels the air in his lungs dissipate in a shaky exhale at the view – a mere few steps forward, and the whole field of flower biomes is easy to see. Ranging from green blades of grass and small roses to tall dandelions, George can see the entire spectrum of Mother Nature right before his eyes. Beautiful._

_He glances up at Dream. The younger has his eyes locked on the earth below them, but George knows where he’s looking – he doesn’t know why Dream is so fascinated by it, but the newly built home of men proclaiming freedom and independence engrosses him. George sighs at the clearly reserved crease in his brow. Even with such a sad scowl, he’s just as ethereal as the flowers below. George’s heart hits at the back of his ribcage relentlessly._

_“What is it?” he asks. His voice stays as a whisper, as though if he spoke normally, it would echo over the land and wake all those deep in slumber._

_George watches in silence as Dream sucks in a breath through his nose, chest rising. The sun dances across his features with delicate gentleness, electrifying every perfect flaw of his. George swallows._

_“Look, George,” Dream says. His arm stretches out to motion to the land displayed below them, finger pointed out like he’s picking apart every last detail of the world they created together. George follows his gaze, ripping his eyes away from sunkissed skin. His voice is slow, thought out, as though he’s been anticipating this moment for a while. “Everything the light touches is our Kingdom.”_

_George’s eyes immediately fly down to the new country occupying a chunk of the city. His mind races, but Dream’s calming voice is enough to keep him sober._

_“A King’s time, as a ruler, rises and falls like the sun.” George lets his eyes trail back to Dream. His mouth is turned up in a small smile, all sadness now hidden behind a hopeful – almost daring – expression. He stares out at the sun, watching as it slowly descends, pulling the world’s light with it. George can’t peel his eyes away, not this time, not when Dream's mouth moves with determined ferocity despite the underlying message to his words. “One day, George, the sun will set, and my time here will rise with you…”_

_George’s breath hitches. His ability to speak disappears, clinging to his throat like a lifeline when Dream turns to him. Less and less light covers them both gradually, and Dream’s face is surely becoming shadowed with oncoming night. When his strong hand reaches out to press into George’s hair, fingers weaving through his scalp, George finds himself not paying attention to the meaning of what Dream is saying._

_“… As the new King.”_

* * *

When Dream crowns George as the King of the SMP, it’s a rather lonesome feat. _  
_

George stands alone in the middle of the dark throne room, boxed belongings filled to the brim with memories of a forgotten ruler ready to leave, making way for a new monarch. George feels a sense of pride well up inside his chest.

A newly stitched cape is delicately slung over his shoulders, and a ragged crown, worn from the battles and years it has already accomplished, sits atop his head. He can feel the gold - still warm from it's home in the Nether despite having been in the Overworld for years now - seeping into his skull. He can feel the silk and polar fur warming him up through his cape. He can feel large sleeves enveloping his arms, and soft cotton pants covering his shaking legs. It’s all there, and yet it feels so foreign that he might as well be naked.

Dream kneels before him, head dipped in a bow, and George feels _important_. Dream’s careful, gentle hands cup one of his own, palms flush against his pale skin, and it’s warm yet so, so cold. Dream is quiet and distant, but his words contradict it, and George lets himself believe.

“I’m proud of you, George,” he murmurs into his palm. His warm lips tickle George’s fingertips, his breath sending shivers up his spine, goosebumps littering his arms and shoulders. Dream makes a small noise of acknowledgment, correcting himself. “ _King_ George.”

George lets his eyelids fall shut. He remembers orange and red skies, yellow and black concrete walls, and he falls to the floor himself, bringing his other hand to hold Dream’s. In a whisper, as though he’d rather that Dream doesn’t even hear him, he says, “Did you plan all of this?”

His voice cracks, wavering, and the tanned hand pressed against his tightens. George sways, heart beating, and an expression of hurt somehow musters its way up onto his face. Even though it's gone as quick as it came, Dream catches it. He always does.

Dream’s eyes are dull in the darkness. All lanterns and glowstones have been moved to Eret’s new home, leaving the castle with an insatiable emptiness that George finds himself infatuated with. Such a large place – a house that could never be a home – and yet George brightens at the idea of living here. Why? Because he’s King. Because Dream made him King.

He exhales, and George’s gaze dips from his eyes to his parted lips. “No,” Dream answers, voice steady, and George believes him.

“Okay,” he replies. Dream removes his hand from George's hold. Mournfully, he repeats, “Okay.”

* * *

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

George remembers Sapnap repeating the well-known phrase to him mere weeks ago, a sort of warning that Kingship wouldn’t be for him. But now, George stands in front of fields of battles and torment, riddled with shame because Kingship isn’t difficult. In fact, it’s rather effortless.

Smoke and fire burns at the tissue of his lungs, breaths of war and anguish leaving his cracked lips. The wind is harsh, unlike the days of wooden swords and newly found bows, sitting with friends atop grassy hills, when the wind was soft and new. The reminiscence tugs at George’s stomach, but he washes it down with a gulp of sobriety.

The blue cape swings behind him, pushed around lazily in the jarring air. Having a red one hadn’t seemed to fit George, unlike Eret, and in an attempt to make the King feel more kingly, Bad had knitted him a new one. A new cape, of his favourite colour, representing the start of a new era and a new ruler.

George thinks that being King isn’t all it was cracked up to be. In fact, as much as it hurts his heart and pride, he misses when Eret was King.

Bloody bodies and wounded friends lie motionless below him, and when Eret’s fiery eyes glance up at him from the battlefield, George guesses everyone else does too.

* * *

When the day comes, George isn’t ready.

The wind is no longer harsh or cold, and summer sun dripping with promises of better weather as well as happier people cascades over newly built lands, and George finds his peace. His crown is somewhere in his castle, his old dyed leather hat back on, and George finally feels like himself.

Battle scars are still fresh, but George ignores it. He finds comfort in the fact that the “Days Since the Last Battle” counter is up to 8, so what is there for him to do? After all, he doesn’t even like being King.

But when the sun starts it’s descent, and crowds gather around Tommy’s dirt shack, George falters.

Dream stands, adorned with full Netherite, and it’s an intimidating stance for all to see. Those surrounding the area look away, eyes threading into the cracks in concrete floors or swaying blades of grass – anywhere else but the man George knows so well.

Or, _knew_.

His heavy sword lies strung across his back, a single arrow hanging from his belt, and his eyes are hidden beneath golden hair and a porcelain mask. He glows under the moonlight, and George would usually find it intriguing, but the serious stench emitting from Dream's posture makes the hairs on his arms stand up.

When George steps closer, and Dream takes a step back, he halts. He can feel the eyes of everyone around them seeping into his skull, and he feels that familiar foreign feeling bubble up in his gut. To feel so out of place in one’s own city is kind of pathetic, isn’t it?

“Dream?” his voice layered, coming out careful yet underlined with confusion and hurt. His hand is suspended in the air from where he had subconsciously reached out to grasp onto Dream’s arm. When the taller brushes past him, knocking into his shoulder with blatant disrespect and zero remorse, George slowly lowers it.

He stays staring at the dirt of Tommy’s house, eyebrows brought down with clear uncertainty, until Dream finally speaks from behind him.

“Eret, you’re King again.”

His voice is silky smooth, quiet and confident, and George almost misses it. When his brain catches up to his ears, he flips around on the spot. Eret’s surprised expression – wide-eyed and lips parted – greets him with horrid dread.

“What—” Eret starts, but George stutters out a response before he can finish.

“I— I’m literally still King,” he says. He swears that he sees Dream stiffen, but he blinks, and suddenly his serious demeanour is back. As though his eyes are tricking his brain to see what he wants to see - _the sun dancing across his features with delicate gentleness, electrifying every perfect flaw_ – but he knows it’s not real.

None of it was real, was it?

“Your actions showed that you were loyal—” Dream continues, and a stab of pure betrayal hits George in the heart so hard that his hand flies up to latch onto the cloth around his chest. Completely ignored, as though he were nothing. Dream doesn’t stop. “—And that you were caring, and that you were a good friend—”

Every word hits deeper and deeper, until George finds his eyes becoming tunnelled, blocking out the sounds like they were directed at him; _you’re not loyal, you’re not caring, you’re not a good friend._

“I’m literally right here,” George says. His voice is pathetic, and it haunts him that he can be so affected by a few words barely aimed at him. “I’m right here.”

It’s nearly soundless. Almost inaudible. But Dream catches it. He always does.

He turns on his heels, hands clenched next to his sides, and George takes a step back. The habitation buried deep below his heart filled with pitiful affections and attachments glows, and the courage to say what he’s been thinking rises faster than he can temper.

“Just say you hate me.”

The groups of people around the area had been creating small talks about what was happening, quietly emersed in little conversations, but George didn’t realise until the air went still. All eyes turned towards him, any talk suddenly disappearing like it was white noise on a television that was then unplugged.

Dream stays still. George tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, a fleeting attempt to ground himself and get his emotions in check. He doesn’t even _care_ about being King. Yet when Dream turns himself around again, and they’re face to face, George finds betrayal dripping off his own features. His face is riddled with plain _hurt_ , because Dream picked _him_ to be King, not Eret. Dream was supposed to trust _him_.

Dream takes a step towards him. George wills himself to move backwards. To run, to leave, to give up on them because _it was never meant to be_. But his boots stay firmly rooted to the dirt below, feet sinking into watered soil, and an ache rises up in his chest at Dream’s all too familiar cold smile carved into white.

It’s ironic that George realises it now, of all times. His blond hair, his golden bronze skin, his freckled face. His restrained smile, only for George, when they’re alone atop grassy hills overlooking the world— _their_ world. It’s sick that he only wants it now that it’s gone, replaced with isolated stares and bare brushes that mean nothing to him. George feels his shoulder tingle from where Dream had touched him minutes before, and his hand comes up to grasp at the spot with rising desperation.

Dream stops in front of him. His boots mix with the earth below, dirt covering the seams, and George knows that the bottom of his shoes and cape look the same. He doesn’t have a moment to feel sorry for Bad’s hard work being punished, because calloused fingers hook under his jaw and lift his head.

George stares up. Dream tilts his mask up, and from where he stands, because Dream towers over him in height, George can see the man’s eyes from underneath his glowing hair. They’re dark and dull, just as expected, but a glint of _something_ shines through that George can’t place.

Dream leans forward. George’s breath catches in his throat, his heart hammers.

“I hate you,” Dream says. George stills. Dream's large hand disconnects from his chin and he turns his back, arms lifting in a dramatic addition to his words. “I hate you, George. There, are you happy? I said I hate you.”

“Wh—” George tries, but his voice breaks, and he covers his mouth with shaking fingers. His eyes stay wide, and he can’t bring himself to look at Dream when the man turns back around to face him.

“I hate you. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” Dream repeats cruelly, and George curls in on himself. Dream’s words echo inside his head, rattling his brain with such a ferocity that he feels he’s going to be sick. He’d waited for this, waited for Dream’s true opinions to shine through, but now that he’s heard it, it’s all finally _real._

Even atop grassy hills, overlooking _their_ world, it was never _them_ , was it? It was always Dream, and his master plans, and George was just a pawn.

George was just a pawn.

He looks back up when Dream is finally quiet, staring at him intently from behind the mask. George feels horrid emotions swirling inside, but he sucks it up. When a tear threatens to spill, he looks away and furiously wipes at it until his eyes are stinging and the skin surrounding is red raw. Dream doesn’t falter. George is crushed.

Why did he have to realise now?

“I lo—” George starts, but he cuts himself off before he can finish. Dream doesn’t say anything, but his arms fall from where they were crossed over his chest.

There’s a pause.

 _“A King’s time, as a ruler, rises and falls like the sun.”_ Dream finally says, and George freezes on the spot. When he looks back up, Dream’s mask is in his hands and orange and red streaks spill across his cheeks. The sunset paints him with memories that George can’t get out of his head, even now.

A single memory, of dumb, grassy hills, that replayed in his mind for months, and yet he’d missed Dream’s warning all together.

“You,” George says, and that’s all he says. Dream speaks to him through his lidded eyes, still completely void of any emotion, and George wonders if it’s just hiding. If Dream has pushed them all down so far that George can’t see into his soul through his eyes like everyone else.

“I hate you, George,” Dream breathes out, and he pulls his mask back on. When his figure disappears down the fraying wooden path, the crowds disperse and people fall into their groups, some following Eret back to his castle to congratulate him. His castle. _Eret’s_ castle.

 _“A King’s time, as a ruler, rises and falls like the sun.”_ George repeats to himself. He tips his head back and lets the wind brush over him, cape falling to the floor. Orange and red merges into purple and navy, and George finally gets it.

“You were warning me.” he exhales. “You were warning me, weren’t you?”

Nothing replies. Why would it? Dream has already left.

“You were warning me,” he says again, as though he’s wrapping his head around the new information. Because he is. “You _did_ have it all planned out— all of it. But you were just looking out for me.”

George finds himself sitting, pants soaked with wet grass, and even though it’s not atop grassy hills, or overlooking yellow and black concrete walls, or with _him_ , George finds pleasure in watching the sunset.

He inhales a shaky breath, and the sun dips just behind the trees. The last light is slowly fading, and George knows that his time as a ruler has finally fallen, just like the sun, just like Dream had promised.

He can't help the laugh that bubbles up. It leave his mouth as a choked sound, and he finally lets himself go. He can let go, because Dream _loves him_ , and George knows it now. In his own sick and twisted way, Dream was telling him that he cares, and that he loves him. George knows. He just does. Because he knows Dream better than Dream knows himself.

He smiles. His eyes close.

“I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> my twitter is @xaccier
> 
> thank you for reading!


End file.
